


If you can't run, crawl

by stripeypirate



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Army, Blood and Gore, Bonding, Gen, POV Jean Kirstein, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Soldiers, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-18
Updated: 2014-10-01
Packaged: 2018-02-13 15:03:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 13,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2154981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stripeypirate/pseuds/stripeypirate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"When you can't run, you crawl<br/>And when you can't do that, you find someone to carry you" </p>
<p>On the bloody battlefields of the Somme Offensive, the 104th Battalion must learn to rely on each other in order to survive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Farewell

**Author's Note:**

> I chose not to use warnings to keep the suspense intact but this IS a war fic, so expect all the swearing, blood, death, and general horror that comes with the territory. That being said, if you have more in-depth questions/concerns about possible triggers feel free to message me and I’ll be happy to answer them!

**London, England 1916**

The roar of many voices, mingled with the heavy chuff of engines filled Jean Kirschtein’s ears long before he reached the platform of Victoria Station.

_Everyone off to fight for King and Country._

He’d spent the better part of the morning staring at his reflection in the mirror; the man in the crisp olive-green uniform and cap perched jauntily on his head was a stranger.

A loud train whistle brought him back to the present. His mother stood next to him, looking as old and worn as the dress she was wearing. Jean grabbed her hand and she pulled him into a tight hug.

“I’m gonna be fine, mum. Stretcher bearer, remember? Those guys barely see combat. They come on the battlefield after all the fighting’s done and collect the wounded. I’ll be safe.” _Which is exactly why I signed up for that position, and I hope to God I’m right about it._ He’d heard older classmates who had joined joke about how they wouldn’t be caught dead in the medical corps. Too far from the action. Boring. Cowardly. _Fine with me, as long as I get home safe._

“Besides,” Jean continued, noting his mother flinch at the mere mention of “battlefield”, “Training takes a whole ten weeks. The war’ll probably be over by then anyway, right?” _It’s been dragging on far too long already. Surely it can’t last…_

Mrs. Kirschtein gave a wan smile and kissed him on the cheek. “Your train is coming. I packed some extra socks in your trunk, in case you get cold. Remember to write, okay?” Her breath hitched as the massive locomotive ground to a halt. “I’m so proud of you. Come back safe.”

Jean nodded jerkily, not trusting himself to speak. He scrubbed self-consciously at his eyes, and picked up his kit bag. He followed the tide of young men in uniform who were cramming into the cars, some laughing and joking, others calling out last goodbyes to loved ones, and a few sitting quietly looking lost in the bustle.

As the train pulled away, Jean jostled for a spot at the window, searching the crowds for one last glimpse of his mother before the war swept him away.

* * *

 

**Somme, France; Six Months Later**

 “Do you ever think it’s gonna stop fucking raining?” Jean grumbled around the damp cigarette clamped between his teeth, as he peered around the flap of the RMO’s tent. The deluge hadn’t let up for days, though for the moment the shelling had. He figured it was more a result of bogged down artillery than a show of amnesty from either side. The ground outside had been churned into a muddy soup.  “If it keeps up at this rate, we’ll drown like rats.”

“Found a dead one in the puddle this morning, all swollen up. Must’ve been the size of a rabbit.” Marco Bodt, his partner, was busy stacking stretchers in the corner.

“I bet that was the fucker who ate through my pannier! Bandages and everything. Had to ask the RMO for a new one.”

Marco winced. The regimental medical officer was a bald man by the name of Shadis, who looked like he could tear a man in half with his bare hands. He had a voice to match, and could be heard tearing people new assholes, even over the sound of heavy gunfire. What’s more, he had no tolerance for incompetence in any form, much less a stretcher bearer who had gotten his vital stash of equipment destroyed by rats. 

“How’d that go?”

Jean shrugged, finally giving up on the cigarette with a look of disgust.

 “My hearing came back eventually.”

“So that was the commotion I heard earlier. I was also wondering why you were hanging around here when you weren’t on duty.” The other man chuckled as he spread his arms to emphasize the chaos within the small space.

“You’re welcome to help out, by the way. As soon as I’m done here, we can head back to the trenches and eat.”

Jean stared at the heaps of bandages, scissors, splint, spare panniers, and other supplies vital to the bearers, lying in disorganized heaps.

“That’s an awful lot of shit we got this time. Way more than usual. Do you think that means…”

Marco shifted uncomfortably, rubbing the nape of his neck like he always did when he was nervous. “I’ve heard rumors about a big push, but you know how people are. They make up shit like that all the time cos they’re bored of sitting around digging supply trenches.”

_I’d rather be bored and alive, thanks._ Jean thought back to his training days, when his shoulders ached constantly from carrying dummy stretchers full of dead weight up and down the parade grounds. His hands had broken, blistered and calloused over again and again until they were rough as sandpaper. _It was hard enough then. How am I going to do it on the battlefield?_

They worked in silence until all the supplies were neatly put away and the tent had regained some semblance of order. Both men shuddered as they stepped out into the rain, fumbling down the ladders into the dank confines of the trenches.

Jean’s heart did an odd, stuttering dance in his chest as it leapt at the sight of an excited knot of people, then immediately plummeted once he realized it was Eren in the center, not the postman. 

_That kid's always stirring up trouble ever since the first day, with his smug-ass "Let's make a bet on who's gonna kill the most Germans!" He'd probably wager on himself, idiot._

As they approached, a bantam infantryman waved them over with a huge smile plastered to his face. 

"What is it this time, Connie?"

“You didn't hear? The 89th got sent to the front lines!”

_So the rumors are true._ Jean’s heart sank even further until it was somewhere in the vicinity of his stomach. _They higher-ups are gearing up for an assault, which means…_

“We’ll be next!” Connie crowed, bouncing excitedly on the balls of his feet. He was so small he didn’t even have to duck to keep his head from poking over the top of the trench. “Man, I can’t wait to see some action- God knows we’ve been sitting on our asses long enough. Promised my little brother I’d bring him back a German helmet-”

“Fuck off, Springer,” Jean muttered, pushing his way through the crowd until he found himself face-to-face with the damn Jaeger kid.

 “You think this is funny?” He hissed; the cocky smile frozen on Eren’s lips as he turned only irritated him more.

 “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The crowd was gathering closer; soldiers catching the scent of a fight like bloodhounds.

“Are you that eager to die, hunh? You got something to prove, you suicidal bastard?” 

A muscle clenched in Eren’s jaw until the little blondie, Armin, who followed him around like a puppy, put a restraining hand on his shoulder.

“At least I can take out a few trenches before I go. I’m gonna fight like a man, not hide behind some stretcher shitting my pants.”

“You want that I throw you out into no-man’s land so you can go running back to that Hun daddy of yours?” Jean screamed, grabbing the smaller man by the lapels and yanking him close. He heard Marco groan behind him.

“Eren, don’t-” He heard Armin plead, before a sharp crack, followed by pain lancing up his nose to his forehead.

Jean struck out blindly, still reeling from the headbutt. His fist connected solidly with what felt like a cheekbone. By now the group had expanded even further, and people were calling out bets and encouragement to both side. He wiped the blood streaming from his nose and struggled to focus around the throbbing emanating from the center of his face.

Armin was tugging on Eren’s sleeve, the simple schoolyard gesture reminding Jean that those two were still _boys._

_Arlert’s what, fifteen, for chrissake? The recruiters don’t give a rat’s ass anymore.  And Eren claims he’s of age, but I haven’t seen him shave once since we got here._

Jean was tempted to walk away right then, but hands were pushing at his back, eager voices egging them on. Eren shook off the blow and shot him a look of pure loathing.

_Oh shit, I can’t back out now._

He cracked his knuckles and prepared for the next onslaught, when a crisp voice cut through the chaos.

“That’s interesting. I thought we were supposed to be fighting Germany. Should I alert the higher-ups that we’ve found a spy?”

Any witty comebacks died on Jean’s tongue as the ranks parted, revealing the lead bearer team; Erwin Smith and his partner Levi. 

They made an odd pair to be sure; Erwin with straw blonde hair and the build of a Greek God, Levi dark and even smaller than Connie, though broader of shoulder. Jean couldn’t imagine how they could possibly work well in action together, but he’d heard stories of miraculous rescues and it was the consensus among the more experienced bearers that those two were the absolute best.

“No, sir,” Eren muttered, suddenly sheepish. An angry flush was creeping up the back of his neck.  

_Now that I think of it, wasn’t Levi the one who’d given Eren two black eyes the first time he went shooting his mouth off around here?_ He felt a twinge of guilt deep in his belly. _He just wants to be respected, really. Must be hard being saddled with a German surname…_

“It was a misunderstanding, sir,” Marco chimed in. “I’m sure it won’t happen again.” His eyes slid pointedly to Jean and back.

Erwin fixed them both with a long, scrutinizing stare.

“As you seem to already know, I’ve come to tell you that we’ll be moving out of the reserve trenches tomorrow morning. Kirschtein, Bodt, I want all bearers to report to the RMO tent tomorrow at 0600. We’ll be stopping by to help transport and set up an aid post closer to the front. Any further… _misunderstandings_ will be met with harsh punishment.” He turned smartly on his heel.

“If you save your energy instead of fucking around with each other, some of you might even survive.” Levi drawled over his shoulder, his slate-grey eyes betraying no trace of humor or amusement. Rumors swirled around the mysterious bearer, who was known by first name and reputation alone. Some said that he'd been in jail for killing a man before the war started, which Jean personally found more than a little ironic.

“He’s scarier than the fucking Huns,” Connie whispered in the ensuing silence. No one dared laugh.

* * *

 

Marco shook his head as Jean followed him back to their dugout.

“That was stupid.”

Jean shrugged uncomfortably, preferring to fiddle with the laces of his boots than look Marco in the eye.

“Yeah well, he started it,” the words sounded childish even to his ears and he heard his partner sigh.

“I know you’re scared, and yeah the kid’s got an annoying hero complex, but it’s not fair to take your feelings out on him.”

“I’m not-” Jean raised the boot, now free of his foot, in preparation to lob it at Marco’s head, only to be met with the startled blue eyes of Private Arlert.

“I-I just wanted to apologize for what happened back there I feel like you took more responsibility for it than you really need to and Eren’s not an ass all the time and I wish you guys would get along better because you seem alright to me,” he let out in one long rush of breath.

“Thanks?” Jean glanced over at Marco, but the other man was studiously picking his toes clean.

_Fat lot of help you are._

“I, err, enlisted because of him. We grew up together y’know?” Armin continued uncertainly. “His father moved back to Germany a few years ago; just when things were starting to get hairy, so his whole family’s been under all this pressure to prove their loyalty,” his voice dropped. “We went to three different towns before we found a recruiter who’d take both of us. I mean, Eren’s almost eighteen and pretty strong, but I’m-”

“Why?” Jean blurted out before he could stop himself. “Why go through all that effort in the first place? You could’ve been safe for a few years, at least. If this bloody war even lasts that long.”

Marco’s head jerked up and he sent Jean a reproachful glare.

_So you WERE listening in, asshole. Help me out here?_

Armin laughed nervously, sweeping a hand through his long, probably against regulation, bangs.

“I’ve been asking myself that I lot these past few days. Guess I felt like we’d have better luck if we stuck together. Plus I’ve never been to France before, so…”

The two stretcher bearers exchanged baffled looks before their laughter bubbled over. Armin grinned with relief.

“Shit, kid you’re actually _funny_.”  

* * *

After Armin left, it was well past time to bed down for the night. Jean’s “bunk” consisted of a shallow indentation carved out of the trench wall. Theoretically it protected him from gunfire, but not much else. When it poured, as it had been, the sides oozed moisture and Jean was afraid the whole this would collapse on him in a squelching mudslide.

He gave the wall a cautious kick, just to make sure, before sliding in. With the walls of earth hemming him in on three sides, it felt uncomfortably like a coffin so he rolled over to face the sheeting rain and the occasional passerby, hunched against the onslaught. 

Jean tried to sleep but his nerves were jangling, hairs rising on his arms at every extraneous sound. Somewhere down the line he could here Berthold plunking away on a battered old fiddle he’d dragged with him all the way from England.

_I guess everyone’s on edge tonight._

 He pulled his damp wool blanket closer, suddenly homesick for the sunlight streaming in through his window, his mum’s smile when he came down for breakfast. Closing his eyes, he forced the rotten, damp smell out of his nose and replaced it with sizzling bacon and eggs.

_I’ll come home safe, Mum. Don’t worry._


	2. Before the Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The battle looms closer...

The next morning came too soon. In the grey, pre-dawn light, Jean could make out the lumbering forms of artillery pieces making their way to the battlefield. A low tingle spread throughout his body, like he was full of static electricity and the next person to touch him would get an awful shock.

Marco grabbed his shoulder and he let out a strangled yelp.

“Time to go. Reiner and Bertholt are already at the tent. After last night, I think it’d be best if we weren’t the last ones there.”

Jean nodded, trying to ignore the icy sweat that was beginning to slide down his back.

_We’re just transporting supplies today. Setting up the clearing station for the wounded. Listen, no gunfire. The battle hasn’t even started yet. Which of course means we’ll be right in the thick of it when it does…_

“Oi, it’s gonna be fine.” Marco gave him a wan smile and punched him lightly in the side. “Can’t take out the 104th that easily, right? We’ve already survived Shadis!”  
“And latrine-cleaning,” Jean added with forced cheeriness as they packed up the last of their belongings. He carefully took out the picture of his mother and re-wrapped the oilskin around it to keep it dry.

“Carrying twelve-stone dead weight.”

“Blisters ‘n bleeding hands.”

“Reiner’s cooking.”

So it went, as they passed infantrymen cleaning their rifles and rearranging their kit bags. Connie gave them a mock salute and mouthed “See you at the front”. Eren scoffed and pretended to ignore them, but Armin gave a small nod.

“I hope to God we won’t have to carry any of them,” Marco whispered, suddenly solemn.

“You need to learn to shut your damn mouth,” Jean snapped, but the horrific idea had already been planted.

Fortunately they reached their destination and were immediately set upon by Levi, who had them rolling and re-rolling bandages until they were _exactly_ right, only to have them haphazardly stuffed into panniers and boxes and loaded onto carts.

After about half a mile, the road became more heavily torn up. Shell casings were strewn about the street, and the few remaining trees were pockmarked with bullet holes.

“Almost there,” Erwin remarked. “We want to get close to the action, to make your carries quick and easy. You all know by now that the most important thing is to get the man to the aid post as fast as possible. From there he’ll go to a clearing station, and then hopefully a hospital, but the most vital moments happen on your watch. It’s your responsibility to stop the bleeding if you can, and get him to safety.”

They had all heard the same sentiments many times over since their first day of training. Any other time Jean might have rolled his eyes, but today they were comforting.

_We are important. The average Tommy is counting on us to have their backs._ He looked around at the nervous but determined faces of his companions. _We can do this. Just gotta rely on our training is all. Trust each other._

His optimism faded the closer they got to the trenches. The stench of death and decay grew stronger with every step. The landscape was transformed into a twisted nightmare of shell holes, and bloated horse corpses. An overturned cart lay abandoned in a ditch, one wheel poking forlornly up at the sky.

_And I thought it was bad enough in the reserves._

Finally, Shadis signaled everyone to stop and they worked hurriedly to construct the tent.

“I never expected them to put the aid post this close to the fighting,” Marco observed uneasily. “What if they get within range?”

“Oh they probably will,” Levi said offhandedly as he passed, lugging four massively overfull panniers without any apparent effort. “In fact, the med stations often become targets. Which is why they move around all the damn time. Make sure you know your charts, kids.”

Jean and Marco stared wordlessly after him before simultaneously rifling through their pockets for their field maps.

* * *

 

Night fell with a tense quiet. Men sat in groups scattered throughout the trenches. They were too close to the front to risk a fire now, so they ate their meals cold. Those that could eat, anyways. Jean stared down at his tin of Maconochie stew, barely palatable on a good day, and overturned it with a sigh. The lumps of meat, vegetables, and congealed fat were instantly undistinguishable from the mud.

“Hey, don’t do that! You’ll bring more rats!” Connie griped, but his heart wasn’t really in it.

“Sorry,” Jean muttered, scuffing the mess with his boot. He highly doubted the rodents would care if their food source was dirty or not, but Connie was appeased.

_Besides, what if we don’t even make it back tomorrow? This could be the last night I ever have to worry about trench foot, or mice crawling on my face when I’m sleeping, or lice…_

He suddenly had an overwhelming urge to write to his mother. He fished around for a pen and a crumpled sheet torn out of the notebook he brought to the weekly lectures to “further educate” the bearer teams.

Jean stared at the paper, pen poised, for about ten minutes before he realized he had no idea what to say.

_Dear Mum, If you’re reading this I’m dead?_

_Dear Mum, We’re going over the top tomorrow but don’t worry because I’ll be fine?_

_Dear Mum, The food here is awful please send some more of those biscuits?_   

 “Writing to the family?” Marco had appeared over his shoulder, chewing on a piece of jerky.

“Yeah, I’m trying. I just-” He swiped a clammy hand through his hair and swallowed hard.

“I know.” Marco waved his own blank sheet of paper wryly. The faint erasure lines stood out like ghosts. “Maybe we should switch?”

“What, like you write mine for me and I do the same for you?”

“Exactly! That way in case…something happens, our families will get a note from someone who knew us. Not an impersonal letter from the army.”

Jean let out a long, slow breath along with a silent prayer that the macabre preparations would be unnecessary and that he would return home with the message tucked under his cap. Then he would burn it the first chance he got.

“Sure.” _It’s not like I’m getting anything done on my own._ “Gimme.” He reached out a hand and grabbed the sheet between his index and pointer fingers.

“Anyone else you want me to write to while I’m at it? Girlfriend?”

Marco blushed slightly and shook his head. “Only my mum, dad, three older sisters, and two little brothers.”

Jean stared. “ _Only_?! Seven people is a lot of pressure! I’ve only got mum,” he gasped indignantly. “Well, and this one girl back home but I don’t think she was ever really into me in the first place.”

_It’s funny that we’ve spent all this time together and not talked about stuff like that_.

Jean thought about the months of training; the long nights spent too exhausted to speak, staring up at the ceiling in a roomful of other men all thinking about the same thing: _home_. In a way, it was almost too sacred to share with the ties of blood that would soon bind them together looming in the distance. Family was something to protect from that world- a pure space in every man’s mind and speaking of it aloud would drag all those pleasant memories out into the mud. They would make jokes about marriage to those who received regular, handwritten notes that still carried the lingering scent of perfume, or tell stories of schoolyard misadventures to pass the time, but there was always a side to every tale that was kept locked privately away. To be pulled out when packages arrived and men would disappear, only to return in an hour or so with blotchy faces and a misty far-off look in their eyes.

They spent the next few minutes in respectful silence, with only the scratching of nibs and occasional burst of artillery fire to interrupt. In the end, Jean tucked the letter inside his boot and was able to fall into a dreamless sleep. 


	3. First Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The storm rolls in.

A loud whistle blasted Jean into wakefulness. All around him, soldiers milled about gathering ammo and adjusting their equipment. He grabbed Marco and together they ran against the tide towards the RMO tent, where all their supplies waited.

_Splint, bandages, suture, tourniquet, and extra scissors. There’s still some room left. Better grab more bandages…_

Jean ran his hands over the familiar items, trying to visualize the pages of his handbook that corresponded with each in order to calm his racing mind. His pannier was full to bursting by the end, but his hands still quivered whenever he let them lie still.

Marco caught his eye and nodded to indicate he was ready, and together they gripped the handles of the nearest empty stretcher; Jean in the lead as always. Reiner gave them each a reassuring clap on the back that nearly knocked the wind out of them before jogging off to join his partner, Bertholt, who had accumulated a permanent hunch from keeping his six-foot-four frame out of view of the snipers.

The way back to the trenches was even more difficult with the cumbersome stretcher between them. The crowds had grown thicker as men began to line up in rows, sergeants at the front, whistles ready to give the signal. The bearers slunk along behind all the activity. Most soldiers pointedly ignored them, a few cast dirty looks out of the corner of their eyes. They didn’t like to be reminded of their own frailty; the possibility that in a few short minutes they could be a body slung between two of their comrades, torn apart by German guns.

Eren was busy bragging about how many Huns he was going to kill; though, Jean noted with a small hint of satisfaction, he was just as pale as the rest of them. He still took the time to pause and glare at Jean, spitting casually in the dirt several inches away from his foot.

Jean thought he heard him mutter “Coward,” but he was wound too tight to care.

Armin gave a faltering wave that Jean returned with what he hoped was a confident grin, not a grimace. Connie was standing next to them and rapped his helmet smartly with his fist.

_Dumbass still wants a German one._

Then a whistle blew and ladders clacked against one another as they were laid against the trench wall. Soldiers gave a final, fortifying yell as they hurled their bodies over the top and began sprinting across no-man’s-land. Machine guns answered back immediately as the line surged forward. Sergeants harangued their men to move faster, as they had been given orders to shoot anyone who faltered or held back in the trenches.

Jean saw Armin looking back, eyes wide with fear, perched at the lip of the trench just for a moment before he was lost in the tide.

He and Marco took up their positions; waiting for everyone to exit the trench before they began to pick up casualties. The artillery hit closer than ever before; huge concussions that rattled his teeth. Already the screams of the wounded and dying could be heard over the chaos of battle.

 Suddenly, the trenches were empty and they were heaving the bulky stretcher up and over their heads. Jean gripped the ladder with white knuckles, sending a fleeting prayer back home before he followed it into no-man’s-land.

* * *

 

What had once been uneven terrain marked by barbed wire was already marred beyond recognition; the earth churned into a chaotic mess of mud and blood. Nightmarish flashes were followed by earsplitting roars, intermixed with the pop-pop-popping of rifle fire. Men ran towards the concrete German bunkers only a few hundred yards away, which soon came alive with the rattle of machine guns. Gaping craters yawned like mouths, where wounded men lay sprawled helpless at the bottom.

He felt the front of the stretcher press into his back. Marco was gesticulating frantically at him with his free hand, freckles standing out like stars on his milk-white face. He was mouthing “Go,” and Jean willed his frozen knees into action. They sprinted pell-mell towards the first crater, sliding treacherously in the muck.

Jean braced the front end of the stretcher against his back, struggling to find a balance between that and his loaded pannier as he stepped gingerly down the embankment. A bloodless hand greeted them, grasping fitfully at the sky. Its owner gurgled around blackened lips.

_He must’ve been nearby when the shell hit,_ thought Jean dumbly, staring at the torn flesh where the man’s right ear was supposed to be. He also had a large hole blown clear through his shoulder, mirroring his heart on the other side.

Jean tried not to gag as he fumbled with his scissors, dropping them almost instantly into the mire. He’d seen wounded soldiers before, when he was in the reserve trenches, shuffling back from the front in a ragged line. But those wounds had been more or less contained; patched up at the field stations and readied for transport to a proper hospital. Here they were all open, blasted edges caked with dirt. Limbs hanging by a thread, no surgeon in sight.

_They’ve only got us,_ Jean realized with a sudden swell of panic. _We’re the first line of defense. The ones who’ll determine if they even make it to the post. Oh, God I’m not ready for this._

“I’ve got some morphine for the pain. Can you open your mouth?” Marco was crouched down by the head, gently cupping the back of the injured man’s neck so he could swallow the pills with a small sip of water. If it wasn’t for the small hitches in his breathing and the slightly nasal sound of his voice that indicated he wasn’t breathing through his nose, Jean would never have guessed he was scared.

Steadying himself, he grasped his extra pair of scissors and began to cut away the uniform jacket.

  _Thank fuck for Levi and his anal retentive carry-two-of-everything mentality that had us all cursing when they had to repack their panniers. It just saved my ass._

He could hear Marco distantly humming a one-sided conversation next to him as he stuffed his horror and revulsion somewhere deep inside him, tamping it down and laying down the foundation of his training over top.

_Look for burns as well as bullet holes you may have missed. Clean out as much dirt as you can while wasting as little waster as possible. Speed. Cover with bandage. Pack e’m up and move out._

An animistic cry tore from the man’s throat as they lifted him onto the stretched and began the arduous journey out of the shell crater. The closer they got to level ground, the heavier the artillery fire became. Jean’s pulse began to race again.

_Now we’re even slower. A better target._  

A flash of heat whizzed past his cheek, and he tried not to think of that bullet moving a few inches to the right and burrowing through his nose, up into his brain…

He cursed as his feet tangled and he tripped, causing another wail from the patient.

_Where was the aid post?_

Men were calling all around them, reaching out with bloody fingers in a desperate plea. Frantically, Jean strained to pick up the pace, his muscles screaming in protest under the weight. The map he’d carefully stashed in his mind’s eyes had blown apart, the pieces scattered.

“Marco!” He called over his shoulder, “Where the fuck are we supposed to go?” 

“North,” Came the breathless reply. Running had never been his partner’s strong suit. “Trees.”

_Yeah well they’ve all been blown to shit by now._

Jean angled their course towards what appeared to be the remains of a healthy thicket, now a giant sprawl of toothpicks. The road had vanished under the tumble of branches and stumps, so they were forced to slowly pick their way through with the knowledge that every second they were delayed, the chances for their patient’s survival dwindled.

_At least the fighting seems to have moved on a bit,_ Jean mused as he waited for Marco to lift the back end of the stretcher over a particularly large stump. _Not like we’d be able to hit the ground while carrying this guy._

By the time they found a main road, sweat was pouring down Jean’s face and neck in sticky rivulets. A steady stream of the walking wounded made it easy for them to locate the aid post, which even from their distance, they could tell was already becoming overwhelmed.

“Shit,” Marco murmured as they maneuvered their way through the thickening crowd. “Can’t ‘ave been more than a few hours since the fighting started.”

A harried orderly grabbed Jean forcefully by the elbow.

“Bearers there,” he barked, pointing to an open field about a hundred yards away. Men in stretchers were being lined up outside a row of tents from which doctors, surgeons, and nurses all bustled in a flurry of white. “Drop ‘em and go back for more. We ain’t got time to fix your face, mate.”

_Huh?_

The orderly rolled his eyes and scurried off to direct the next influx of casualties, leaving the pair to trundle over to the field alone, their human burden splayed out between them.

The bottom dropped out of Jean’s stomach. Flies had gathered in a greedy, black cloud and were descending on anything that stayed still for a few seconds. Nurses wove in and out of the makeshift facilities, their horror showing only in the blanched lines around their eyes and mouth. One young girl was crying silently as she moved about her tasks, tears falling like rain from her chin and onto the bedspreads. The soldiers were too ensconced in their own misery to notice.

Numbly, he found an empty patch of grass, where they gently unloaded the stretcher. The man was mercifully unconscious, a single brown curl plastered to his forehead with sweat.

“You’re bleeding,” Marco hissed, his eyes going wide with concern. “Why didn’t you tell me you got hit?”

Jean’s hand when immediately to his cheek, where it came away red.

“Must’a got grazed,” he mumbled. “Doesn’t hurt, really. Gimme a gauze pad or something.”

“But you should see a doc-”

“They don’t have time for pansy shit like this!” He glowered, snatching a bandage from his own pannier and pressing it to his cheek. He noticed with a vague sense of nausea, that it stayed put on its own; held in place by sweat and half-congealed blood.

“But what if it gets infected?” Marco was already steering him towards a tent. “C’mon, I’m sure someone can spare a minute to rinse it out.” He lifted the flap with one hand, pushing Jean forward with the other. “You’ll thank me when you don’t have gangrene eating your fa-”

Jean didn’t notice that Marco had stopped speaking mid-sentence. Instead, he was staring at the makeshift operating table, where a gore-splattered surgeon was desperately hacking away at a man’s leg. Another surgeon had a wad of chloroform pressed against the patient’s face, but he was still half-conscious, groaning. The smell was horrendous in the enclosed space, and Jean’s eyes slid away to the corner of the tent. A pile of severed limbs lay there; a hand poking out of the top, frozen in a gruesome wave.

Jean made it out of the tent and barely managed not to get vomit all over his boots.

“Pull yourself together, kid,” an orderly grunted. “We’ve got work to do.”


	4. Pieces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who's stuck with this despite the lack of shipping. Every comment and kudos warms my little egoistic heart :)

_“Don’t worry Mum, bearers don’t see action, we wait until the fighting is over.”_

_Well fuck me sideways, I actually believed the shit I was spewing then._

Jean slouched down further behind the low stone wall that separated them from a nest of angry German machine gunners. Another spray of bullets sent chips of pulverized rock showering down onto his helmet. Two hours trapped like rats. 

_Who’d have thought lugging around a stretcher with a fifteen stone man on it would make me a target? Christ, I’m an idiot. The bastard’s a goner anyways._

He spared a pitying look at the patient, who was lying quietly with his guts in his hands. His face had long since turned a terminal shade of grey as his lifeblood slowly leached into the dirt. Marco was still bent over him, holding his hand and occasionally murmuring something in his ear. It made Jean sick to watch.

_How many people have we actually saved? The aid posts are overrun entirely. Have any of our carries even seen a doc yet, or are they just bleeding out alone in some field? Marco can talk nice to them, put them at ease but I feel more like that Charon guy; ferrying souls to the fucking land of the dead._

“Can you get a shot in?” He asked Connie, with a hint of irritation in his voice. The 104th Battalion had long since splintered in the chaos of battle, but they’d been running across scattered groups of them during their carries. In fact, he and Marco had become the unofficial messengers of the squad, trying to keep tabs on who was where, and if they were still alive. They’d stumbled, quite literally, into Connie as they made their desperate dive behind the wall when the gunfire started.

“I’m trying!” He hissed back. “Gimme some credit here, I got two of ‘em already.”

_Yeah well it only takes one to shoot us full of holes_ , Jean thought bitterly, but held his tongue. _It’s not his fault we’re in this situation._

“He’s gone,” Marco crawled over to the pair, wiping blood on the seat of his pants as he sat down with his back against the wall. Dark circles bloomed under his eyes, and his shoulders had adopted a permanent hunch from carrying and leaning over the stretcher all day.

_He cares so much about each and every one of them. To me they’re just blurred faces, broken bodies to transport, mashed together in some sort of gory collage. Am I a fatalist or is he just more human than me?_

Connie gritted his teeth and redoubled his efforts.

“Any of you guys got a mirror or some shit? I think I could get a better angle around the corner, but I don’t want ‘em to see me.”

Marco fished around listlessly in his pannier for the metal tin that contained morphine tablets. He rubbed it against his shirt for a little shine.

“Will this do?”

Connie puffed out his cheeks and squinted at it, trying to gauge his reflection.

“It’ll have to, I suppose. Unless Kirschtein’s got a little pocket one for doing his makeup.”

_Oh piss off._

Jean really wasn’t in the mood for banter, but he saw Marco’s lips twitch up, so he suffered through the exchange. 

“I do, actually. Your Mum sent it to me. Something to remember her by.”

Connie kept his eyes fixed on the tin, but his fist shot out sideways, catching Jean unaware in the side. Marco rolled his eyes, but some of the warmth had returned to them.

A fresh hail of bullets had them kissing the ground once more. This time, an earsplitting wail rose up from behind them that made Jean’s blood run cold.

“Jesus fuck!” Connie exclaimed, “That wasn’t-”

“Armin,” Jean finished, dread growing like a parasite inside of him.

“I think he’s coming this way.” Marco still had his back against the wall, now shading his eyes and straining to see something in the distance. Jean twisted his neck around and sure enough, a small, blond head was weaving through the grass.

Connie cursed and inched up higher on the wall, preparing to lay down a suppressing barrage. A few minutes later, Armin stumbled over and collapsed down next to Marco.

The kid was a wreck. All color drained from his face, he looked more dead than alive. His eyes were totally blank, like a dolls’. Beyond disgust, or fear even.

“What happened, are you okay?” Marco’s voice was tender and Jean suddenly saw him as the big brother, kneeling over a sibling who’d skinned their knee.

Armin didn’t answer, only fixed him with that eerie, flat, stare and drew in a few hitched breaths. A large smear of blood covered one side of his face and his uniform was soaked as well, though it was too dark to see with what exactly.

“Armin,” Jean began slowly, carefully enunciating each word. “You shouldn’t be out here alone. Where’s your squad?”

The boy’s face crumpled and his breathing reached a hysterical crescendo. He buried his head in his hands, heedless of the blood, and let out another piercing cry.

Marco enfolded him in his arms; both to comfort him and stifle the noise.

“I r-ran away. Eren tried to follow me but there was an explosion-” Armin jolted out of the embrace as if struck by lightning. “You have to help him! He’s hurt so bad. I have to go too, we’ll bring him back he’s gonna be fine he has to be fine I promised his sister…” He was unconsciously fiddling with the buttons on his uniform now, twisting them back and forth until they were about to pop off.

Marco flinched and made a muted sound of distress in his throat. Through the entire hellish day, the only solace they had was the knowledge that they hadn’t had to carry any of their own.

Connie was still staring stoically at the nest, but Jean could see his arms shaking with the exertion of staying still.

_Who else have we lost without even realizing it- Reiner? Samuel? Who’s going to be next?_

With an odd gentleness, Marco tipped the dead man out of the stretcher.

“No time to waste,” he said offhandedly, but the light tone of his voice was belied by the slight green flush that had crept into his cheeks.

“I’ll cover you guys. Just make it quick, okay?” Connie gripped the butt of his rifle. “Please bring him back alive,” he muttered to no one in particular.

Jean grabbed his end and they took off as fast as they could, bent over almost in half, as Connie let out a wild yell and bullets leapt into the air around them.

* * *

 

Fragmented pieces of metal lay scattered like bits of stars across the grass. The shell, a Black Maria judging by the heavy clouds of smoke, had torn through a barn before meeting its explosive end; tossing up broken beams and animal carcasses into the surrounding countryside. An eerie silence reigned over the area, as if the force of the blast had destroyed the noise as well.

A finger lay nestled in a clump of weeds, pointing accusatorily at Jean.

_He was just some stupid, angry, noble kid and I was pissed at him for calling me a coward._

“We don’t know who that belongs to,” Marco whispered. “There must’ve been a bunch of people or they wouldn’t have bothered shelling the place, right?” He shifted from foot to foot, uneasy with the stillness but loath to disturb it.

_He ran straight into danger to rescue his friend. I couldn’t even get my ass over here to help him in time, so what does that make me?_

“Jean, we should start combing the area,” Marco’s voice was increasing in both pitch and agitation. “We need to get going before it’s too late!”

_What’s the point?_ Jean poked listlessly at the finger with his boot. _Shoulda known from Armin’s face that he was dead from the start. Poor kid’s probably covered head to toe in his best friend and he’s too traumatized to realize it._

“JEAN,” Marco reached out and tugged his elbow so hard he almost fell over.

“What the-”

“Listen!”

For a moment, Jean heard nothing but the soft rustle of wings as crows began to gather overhead. Then, a soft moan reached his ears.

“Fuck!” Jean took off without hesitation, leaving Marco to struggle with the stretcher. It felt like a hand was clamped firmly around his ribcage, squeezing out a blind hope that _maybe he’s alive._

Eren was a broken doll, splayed out underneath a low overhand of rock. His left side was a gory mess; the leg blow off completely below the knee and his arm hanging by a thread, twisted up behind his back at an unnatural angle.

He lifted his head at the sound of Jean’s voice, though his face was a mask of blood so Jean wasn’t sure how much he could see.

“Oi, we’re gonna get you out of here, okay? Just hang on.”

Jean’s hands struggled with the tourniquet, suddenly wooden and cold despite the summer heat. He flinched at the scream Eren let out at his touch.

_Two days ago you were full of piss and vinegar, ready to take on the entire German army by yourself. You seemed invincible, and maybe I hated you a little for it. Look at us now._   


Marco arrived with the stretcher, sucking in a breath through his teeth at the sight.

Eren was trying to speak, his jaw swiveling erratically as he tried to spit out words around the pain.

“Don’ guh.”

“We’re not going anywhere, mate. We’re gonna patch you right up and take you to a hospital.”

He hissed in annoyance. “Armin.”

_What?_

Eren’s chapped lips were set in a firm line, his eyes boring into Jean with the same intensity as they had the night they’d fought.

“Armin,” he repeated.

Jean turned around to quirk an eyebrow at Marco, who was digging through his pannier for another tourniquet. His partner shrugged, but then a slow look of comprehension dawned on his face.

“Armin’s safe. He was the one who came and found us, told us about your injury. He’s not hurt.”

_Not physically anyway. If Connie even managed to get them out from under that heavy fire._  

But apparently that was what Eren wanted to hear, because he relaxed briefly before another spasm of agony hit and he threw his head back against the dirt.

Jean reached out a tentative hand and took Eren’s, fragile as bird bones.

_Marco always made this look easy._ He resisted the urge to wipe his sweating palms on his uniform.

“We’re gonna take care of him while you’re gone. He won’t be alone out here.”

Eren grunted, but tears were slipping from beneath his lashes.

“Promise?”

“Yeah,” Jean answered before nodding at Marco. They counted down from three softly before lifting Eren off the ground. He gave a desperate cry, his face turning to milky blue-white marble, then slumped back, inert. His injured arm dragged across the ground, creating a sordid line in their wake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A "Black Maria" was actual slang for a kind of German high-explosive shell! An opportunity too perfect to pass up imo


	5. Ties that Bind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't sure how to break this section up, so it got it's own awkwardly short chapter heh

Jean and Marco stumbled back to the RAMC tent sometime around midnight. They day’s fighting had ended at sunset, but for the bearers that meant making one last sweep of the battlefield, using the temporary ceasefire to collect their dead and wounded. Though that didn’t mean the snipers weren’t still awake. Jean hadn’t sat down in almost eighteen hours and the uncomfortable pressure on his bladder reminded him that he hadn’t had time to piss for a while either. He wanted to stop down in the trenches to see if Connie and Armin had made it out okay, but there was a leaden weight hanging from his shoulders and he felt that if he heard about one more death, he would crumple.

Marco looked equally heartsick; his lips drawn in a thin, tight line that echoed the crease in his forehead. He kept subconsciously rubbing his chest pocket, where Jean knew he kept that letter to his family.

The tent itself had been utterly ransacked. Stray scraps of bandages littered the dirt floor, along with large puddles of blood and discarded instruments. The wounded men who were treated here had either been moved off to a clearing station or aid post. Those who hadn’t lasted that long were laid in a tent next door, or out in a field to wait for the mortuary workers to come with their burlap sacks.

Jean flopped down bonelessly next to Reiner, who, he realized with a dull gratitude, was still alive and whole. The graze on his cheek was starting to burn, now that he had time to feel it.

The burly soldier nodded at them. Too shocked and exhausted to speak, the trio sat in uneasy silence, listening to the groans and sporadic bursts of fire that constituted a nighttime battlefield.

“Who’s left?” The inevitable question fell from Marco’s lips like a stone down a well.

Reiner shrugged; a heavy, tiresome motion. “Berthold’s still kickin’. I think I saw Levi slinking around here earlier. Samuel and Franz are dead. Don’t know about the rest.”

Jean could see the answer making ripples in his partner’s eyes, could feel the slight concussions beating against his chest.

_Maybe they’re out there now in the dark. Lost, scurrying like rats. Maybe bleeding out at an aid post or already a stiff on the ground. The guys we trained with, swapped stories… They’ve joined the anonymous dead._   

“Shit,” Marco breathed.

“Yeah,” Reiner pulled a flask out of his greatcoat and swirled it gently. “Got this off a guy I carried earlier. Must’a been an officer seeing as there’s real booze in here, not the piss they give us. Anyway, he was grateful and I think we all deserve a little nip, eh?”

Jean bit back a hiss as the liquid burned a trail down to his stomach, sending extra sparks shooting through the cut on his cheek.

_Eventually I’ll have to go back to the trenches, face all the men whose friends I couldn’t save._

And as they lingered, passing the flask from hand to hand, he knew Marco and Reiner felt the same.

* * *

 

Jean stumbled slightly as he made his way back into the fetid ditch he didn’t even pretend to call “home.” It had been a long time since he’d been properly drunk, since that was a nearly impossible task to accomplish on army rations, but his head felt warm and slightly swimmy from the alcohol.

_If I ever make it out of here, I’m gonna round up all the rats in Europe and kill ‘em. Like fucking Saint Patrick. But with rats._

Marco giggled behind him and he realized he must have spoken out loud.

Jean sat down heavily on his bunk, and immediately jumped up again with a muffled screech, when his back brushed something soft.

_They fucking heard me._

“Jean, is that you?”

“Armin?” He flicked on his torch and saw the boy curled on the edge of his bedroll, face pale and delicate as a spiderweb.

“Are you, y’know… alright?”

Armin nodded, sitting up and drawing his knees up to his chest. His eyes were a puffy, faded red.

“Life is transient anyhow. We’re all just dust, getting blown by the wind. No control.”

“The hell are you saying?! Marco are you hearing this? Look,” he steeled himself for the lie, “Eren’s gonna be just fine, okay. Now your job is to stay safe until the war’s over so you can see him again.”

“Safe… yeah.” Armin stood up, brushing Jean’s shoulder as he passed; as if he was already a ghost.

Jean watched him go with a slippery sensation in his gut, like his stomach was sliding into quicksand. Marco rubbed his forehead sheepishly.

“I’ll follow ‘im. Make sure he gets back to his bunk all right. But tomorrow…”

Eren’s face floated before Jean in the darkness, his jaw still hard and determined despite the rapidly worsening shock.

_Promise?_

The sentiment twined around their throats, steady as a noose. They were bound now; like it or not, Armin was their responsibility.

“We’ll find a way to protect him.” Jean clenched his fists at his sides. “We have to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to note that this fic is complete. We're at roughly the halfway point (for some reason AO3 doesn't want to change my question mark) :P  
> ~Thanks for reading~


	6. Living with Ghosts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sewing circles and angst uwu

**September**

Jean squinted in the flickering light of the oil lamp, drawing the sock he was mending closer to his face until he was almost stuffing the damn thing up his nose. He felt the bite of the needle as it pierced his thumb and he finally threw down the offending article of clothing with a loud curse.

One of the new recruits (Jean didn’t bother learning their names anymore, they never lasted long) jumped and dropped his own thread.

“Oi, keep it together,” Levi drawled from a darkened corner of the tent. The young man paled visibly and gave a shaky salute.

“Remember when we used to be afraid of him?” Marco murmured in an undertone. “He’d have us pissing our pants with just one look.”

Jean suppressed a chuckle, but a familiar ache accompanied it.

_Look around the circle, so many missing faces… Reiner and Berthold- caught up at an aid post that got bombed to shit, Marcus- shot right between the eyes on a carry, Henry, Jacob, and Bobby- gassed, and no one knows where the hell Berick went, but he’s probably dead too._

“Stop moping.” Marco flicked the side of his cheek. He still had a faint scar there, not that it was often visible under all the dirt, but he could still feel it twinge the night before a big battle. The newbies attributed this to some sort of supernatural omen power, but in reality Jean had just learned to read the faces of his superiors. He could tell a few days in advance when they were preparing to send men over the top; the circles under their eyes would deepen, and they would fix their gaze firmly on the ground when talking to the enlisted men.

_As they should when they’re signing our fucking death warrants._

Either way, his comrades would notice the way he favored one side of his mouth while eating breakfast, or a certain lopsided quality to his speech, and begin to steel themselves for the days to come. Jean would lie awake at night as a familiar heat would creep over his face, reminding him he was still alive.

The war waged on like a hammer, crushing them all under its constant, pounding weight. On nights like these they got some reprieve; sitting around the tent, mending their clothes and chatting like a group of old ladies. Until the next morning when they’d strap on their kits, gather their stretchers and return to Hell.

“Anyone got a button?” Mike asked, a brief look of consternation flitting over his face as one of the stitches broke on the makeshift facemask he was sewing out of a handkerchief from his girlfriend. His sensitive nose made the stench of the battlefield almost intolerable.

“I’ll trade ya for a thimble,” Jean hedged, sucking the pad of his thumb.

“Aw c’mon I’ve only got one!”

“Well I’m tired of my fingers getting stabbed to shit. At this rate, they’ll be sending me off to Blighty cos I can’t use my hands.”

“Here, take this. Piece of shit fell off my sleeve.” The rest of the tent watched in awed silence as Levi tossed him a small, brass button.

“You’re awfully talkative tonight,” Erwin drawled; another shock, as he rarely looked up from his newspaper. Instead he preferred to let the conversation ebb and flow around him, interjecting when he felt the need to correct or clarify but otherwise letting the men speak their minds.

“Ah go fuck yourself.”

Erwin arched an eyebrow. “Is that any way to talk to your commanding officer?”

Levi flicked him the V without even looking up from his work. “CO my arse. Just cos you’ve got some bars on your shoulder doesn’t make you any more’n my partner.”

Jean fought back a snicker. Ever since Erwin had been promoted a few weeks ago, he’d been thrown headfirst into the minor prestige that came with the position like better rations and exclusive outings. These perks did not come without a price, the least of which being the ass-kissing required and the fact that his now-inferior partner would never let him live it down.

Underneath all the ribbing and insubordination was a deep undertow of concern. In the past few months Jean had learned how utterly he relied on his partner during carries. He and Marco had created their own language out of grunts and hand gestures, anticipating the other’s need before they could say it. They could run out under blistering fire with a wounded man slung between them because they gave each other strength. Levi and Erwin had been working as a team longer than anyone in the battalion, which was a feat in and of itself. Now that relationship was in even greater jeopardy. Enlisted men were collateral damage, whereas officers were targets.  

Erwin’s large eyebrows knitted together in a frown, and he opened his mouth to retort when another nameless private cut in.

“Wow you guys must’ve seen some shit to be as close as you are! Unless um, you knew each other beforehand?” He exclaimed, twisting his hands nervously. It was a pathetic and obvious attempt to break up the tension in the room but it had the desired effect as Erwin threw back his head and laughed.

Jean gave a derisive snort as he began stuffing his sewing supplies into haphazard pockets. He had no desire to hear them recount the story of how Levi had been serving time for petty theft before the war and Judge Smith had offered to forgive his sentence in exchange for military service. Lo and behold, they’d wound up on the same battalion together.

_And they lived fucking happily ever after. Next Marco’ll probably share that time he and one of his brothers snuck into a courthouse after hours trying to steal a gavel and everyone’ll laugh and forget for a minute that we’re in the middle of a goddamn war. Then the newer guys’ll start speaking and I’ll learn about their families, which always makes it harder in the end._

He stepped out into the bitter fall air and lit a cigarette. The tip glowed faintly in the otherwise placid dark, and Jean thought about how all the fresh faces in the tent would soon turn haggard, grey as ash. The ones that would survive, anyway.

Jean fished around in his greatcoat and pulled out the letter addressed to him. It was crumpled and stained from lines of travel, as well as a few days tucked next to his sweating body. The name on the return address was smudged but still legible.

_Eren Jaegar._

He toyed with the corner of the envelope before once again shoving it back into his pocket, unread.

_You were right. I am a coward._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Blighty" was slang for home/England ie. A "Blighty wound" was one that was serious enough to get one sent back to England, but not bad enough to kill or maim.


	7. Going, Going

The haunting, dirge-like cry floated out across the trenches just as the men were bedding down for the night.

“Again?”

“Fucking Arlert.”

“Oi, you wanna bring the Huns down on us? Shut your ass, kid!”

Jean flinched inwardly, and Marco started chewing on his lower lip, his eyes darting towards the tent flap.

_Yeah, we should probably go try and calm him down._

They wound through the familiar passages, ducking overhangs and side-stepping bedrolls without the need for torches. Life on the front lines had become surprisingly predictable. Wake up, eat breakfast, get shot at, come back if you were lucky.

Armin was nestled in his traditional spot along a sharp bend in the trench a few feet away from his bunk. He was small enough to wedge himself into the corner, where it was very difficult to retrieve him. Connie had already arrived with a sour look on his face and cotton wads stuck in his ears.

“I don’t know about you, mate, but I don’t know how much more of this I can take.”

The nightly outbursts had begun a few days after Eren’s accident, and had gotten progressively worse the longer they stayed on the front. At first it had been nightmares, jitteriness, staring off into space at odd hours; not uncommon in men who’d seen action. But as the days wore on, and the body count grew, the battalion shrinking to a fraction of its initial size, Armin started unravelling. On a good day he would wander the trenches like a silent ghost, sometimes pausing to stare at soldiers, muttering under his breath until he made them uncomfortable. On nights like this one he would howl for hours on end.

They’d all heard the term “shell shock” before, often followed by the cautionary tale of a friend of a friend who knew a guy who’d throw himself to the ground if he heard a noise louder than a sneeze, or had cut his own toes off so he’d be sent home. They’d laughed and shrugged it off, assuring each other that they were soldiers, that they would do their job without hesitation or regret. That they could stare death in the eye and not flinch.

_We all have nightmares, Armin,_ He wanted to say. _I hear Marco whimpering and thrashing in his sleep every night. My hands shake so bad sometimes I have trouble holding the stretcher. Just look at the hollowness of Connie’s cheeks. We’re all struggling mate, but you have to hold on._

Marco heaved a sigh that was only a tad weary and took Armin’s hands in his own, rubbing small circles around the knuckles. Connie rolled his eyes but sat down next to them.

“Let’s get you back to your bunk, eh?”

Armin started, blinking rapidly as if he’d just woken up from a dream. He managed to focus on Marco’s face rather than stare emptily over his shoulder. His shaggy head bobbed up and down in a tentative nod.   


Jean tried to remind himself that technically he’d managed to fulfill his promise to Eren, but he couldn’t quite muster up the energy.

_The lights are on but nobody’s home, does that count as being alive?_

He trudged back to his own bunk, fingering the tenuous lines that kept him tied to sanity and wondered what would make them snap. 

 

* * *

 

Moonlight spooled across the battlefield, a thin thread of silver illuminating the carnage below. Jean hefted the stretched to re-adjust his grip, cursing whatever asshole in charge had decided to assign them all night carries for the rest of the weeks.

_Probably some pompous dickhead looking for a promotion. Wants to show that he’s fucking compassionate and doesn’t want to leave any fucking soldiers behind, but guess what? He’s gonna get all his goddamn bearers killed._

Picking their way over barbed wire and burned out bunkers, he and Marco called out as loudly as they dared, hoping someone would still be alive to answer them. The only answer was the flash of a hidden muzzle and a sharp crack.  

Jean felt a dull shock in his lower abdomen, like he’d just been punched. Then his legs slid out from under him, suddenly useless noodles that folded at an awkward angle so that he collapsed ungracefully with one knee twisted out to the side and the other poking him in the chest.

He felt the stretcher fall to the ground as he a warm liquid seeped through his uniform. A distant roar was rising in his ears, white noise that threatened to drown out Marco’s indistinct shouting completely.

_I’ve been shot._

That simple thought enlarged, filling his brain with such rapidity that his entire world soon narrowed down to those three words. He had no time for rational fear. The sensation of his own blood flowing down his thighs in sticky rivulets created a base, instinctual panic. Jean clawed at the dirt in a desperate attempt to flip himself over onto his back.

_If I’m gonna die, I’m gonna do it looking looking at the stars._

The world was tilting dizzily around him; the only noise he could hear with any clarity was his own ragged breathing.

A flash. Pure white light.

The ground bucking beneath him like a wild animal, clods of dirt obscuring his vision, acrid smoke in his lungs.

Then Marco’s voice in his ear.

“I think I got ‘em but we need to move _now_. Ah fuck, where’s my pannier?” Jean heard him click his tongue in annoyance, but he also caught the slight tremor, the forced casualness of his conversation.

“Go then, dammit,” Jean hissed.

_My whole life has been a fucking waste, I don’t need to drag you down with me._

“Shut up.”

He felt pressure on his stomach and cracked an eye open to see Marco bent over him, hands full of gauze, trying to stop the bleeding like he’d done with hundreds of carries before.

“I’m serious, mate, get out of here!”

Marco finished tying the bandage like he hadn’t even heard, and proceeded to grasp Jean under the armpits. He took off his greatcoat and stuffed it behind Jean so he could sit up, or at least slouch uselessly against the fabric.

Jean felt a dull anger. This was supposed to be his end. No point in dragging it out or making a big show.

“This is gonna hurt like a bitch.” Marco patted his head sympathetically; then, without warning, cupped his hands under Jean’s thighs and hoisted him up piggyback style.

Stars exploded in front of his eyes, and he must’ve whimpered because Marco was muttering soft encouragements under his breath but then he was jogging, each step bringing a different shade of agony.

Jean tried to focus on the Marco’s footsteps, but in the watery moonlight he could only get a vague sense of the ground rushing past, which made him dizzy, so he closed his eyes and instead tried to locate the very center of the pain, as if doing so could block it out.

Machine guns rattled somewhere in the distance and people were shouting and he felt heat at his back like the doors of hell itself had opened behind them. Marco was gasping for air, the back of his neck slick with sweat and Jean wanted to tell him to put him down, but a thin stream of blood bubbled from his lips instead.

_You have my letter, at least,_ he thought before he slid down the long slope into unconsciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I've been shot"- three words? Four? There was much internal debate...


	8. Gone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapter left! Thanks for sticking with me....  
> My poor babies T_T

Soft shapes on the edge of his vision, moving against a field of white spread over him like a blanket. Voices fuzzy and indistinct, buzzing like insects across his forehead. Cold hands reaching out from all directions, grasping pleading.

_I can’t help you right now, I’m sorry. Another bearer will be along, I’m sure._

But their cries were growing louder, bold slashes of red soaking the corners of his eyes. Hands around his throat, desperate.

_I’m sorry, I’m sorry._

And then he was falling…

 

* * *

 

Jean woke in a puddle of sweat, his head spinning in an uncomfortable carousel and bile rising in his throat so fast he barely had time to turn his head before he was sick.

She was there rubbing circles on his back, a bleary angel murmuring _it’s normal, it’s just the anesthesia,_ over and over until his stomach stopped heaving and he wiped away the tears gathering at the corners of his eyes. A sharp fire burned low in his belly.

“Why are you here, mum? ‘S dangerous.”

She giggled at that, resting a calming hand on his brow.

 “You can call me Krista. I’m here because I want to help soldiers like you who get banged up in the war. Even though it’s dangerous.”

On closer inspection, the petite blonde with delicate fingers looked nothing like his mother.

“Ah shit.”

“Don’t worry; you weren’t the first by a long shot.” She winked at him and left with a rustling of her starched uniform.

Jean flopped back onto his cot, the ambient groaning of wounded men making itself heard around the pounding in his temples. He chanced a few sips of the water in a tin cup by his bedside, staring up at the olive-green canvas ceiling. The tender stitches on his abdomen itched, but he resisted the urge to touch the bandages. An ambulance pulled up outside, horses snorting, the driver murmuring in soft tones to the orderlies. Artillery boomed off in the distance, farther than Jean could remember in months. Tears welled at the corner of his eyes.

_The war is over for me. I’m going home._

 

 

* * *

 

Three days later, Jean was still rotting at the field hospital, awaiting transport back to England. He knew all the nurses’ names, and the doctors’ habits. He’d even met the chaplain once or twice, though he’d declined his services as politely as he could muster. The days passed in agonizing slowness when all he could do was lie in bed as his mood alternated between joy at the prospect of going home, and an almost crushing worry for his friends still fighting on the front lines.

All in all, the machinations of the hospital were surprisingly routine; which is why when Krista ran in two hours late, barely pausing to slosh some water into his cup before departing in a dove-like flutter of white, he knew something was wrong.

_Heavy casualties, if my ears serve me right. Thought the shelling sounded closer today than usual._

The ground underneath him rumbled as if in response. Jean lay back against the pillows and tried to close his senses off to the chaos that was forming outside. Shouting orderlies, wheels clattering, screams, the odors of blood, shit, and suppurating wounds.

Sometime later, Krista reappeared with red-rimmed eyes and drawn, ashen lips.

“That bad out there, huh?” Jean murmured with an irrational pang of guilt that he wasn’t out helping on the front lines.

She nodded, her hands twisting fistfuls of her uniform into bunches. She was looking anywhere but his face.

“Do you know a man named Marco Bodt?”

“Yes! He was my partner before I wound up in here.” Unease was creeping catlike up his throat. “What happened?” 

“He’s asking for you,” Krista blurted, like she was trying to speak before her courage failed. “He’s still conscious but not for long. His injuries…” her voice cracked. “They’ve put him in the Moribund ward.”

Jean felt as if he’d swallowed a lead balloon; all that heavy dread squeezing past his esophagus and splashing into his stomach, attempting to burst his stitches with the force of it all.

“Help me up,” he gritted out around the mass in his midsection. He swung his feet over the edge of the cot. Krista looked like she wanted to protest, but allowed him to lean against her shoulder.

“Please don’t wreck your sutures,” she whispered.

Jean’s only reply was a grunt, as he focused on putting one foot in front of the other.

 

* * *

 

The Moribund Ward was eerily still; filled with men deemed too late to save, taking their last breaths. The chaplain moved hurriedly up and down the rows of stretchers, his face haggard.

“Where is he?” Jean’s knees were shaking from the effort of standing up, and the watery light-headed sense of disbelief that he hadn’t been able to shake since he got the news.

Krista steered him over to a spot in the corner, and procured a stool to sit on. Jean thanked her and waved her away.

“You’ll need someone to help you back-”

“I’ll be fine.” But as he looked down at his friend, he knew he wouldn’t be fine for a long, long time.

Marco’s arm was gone past the shoulder, a gaping space in his chest where there should have at least been a stump. The right side of his face had been blown off too. Jean could see gleaming bone poking out around the edges of the bandage.  

“Bad, huh?” He sounded like he was already a ghost; voice barely a whisper, his face drained of all color underneath the dirt.

Jean reached out and squeezed his good hand, not trusting himself to speak.

“I don’t remember much. Everything keeps sorta sliding in and out, like I’m dreaming. Morphine really ‘s great. I hardly feel like I’m… dying.”

“I’m staying here,” Jean growled, his voice sounding harsh in the silence of the tent.

Marco tried to smile, but it turned into a grimace.

“I can always count on you, eh?”

“Shut up, you’re the one who saved my ass.” Jean’s words were garbled by unshed tears. _I wish I could have returned the favor._

“The letter… my boot.” It was taking more effort for him to speak. Jean shuffled along the edge of the stretcher until he could fumble with the laces and release Marco’s foot. The letter that Marco had written for Jean’s family was crumpled at the bottom.

“M’not sure why I kept it. Shoulda given it…. to you at th’hospital.”

“It’s alright. I’ve still got yours. I’ll make sure it gets delivered.” He was crying freely now, the weight of the war rushing back onto his shoulders.

“Want you to… read what I said.” Marco drew in a long, rattling breath and winced. A trickle of blood ran down his chin.

“Later.” Jean smoothed out his sheets. “Need anything?”

Marco’s head lolled to the side and he let out a puff of air that Jean took to mean “no”. He sat on the stool until his gut cramped up and his tears dried. Until his closest friend and confidant lay cold and still. Until the rage and helplessness and _injustice_ of it all build up inside him until he was ready to burst from the pressure.  

Only then did he open the sweat-stained envelope, _Mrs. Kirschtein_ written in tidy cursive on the front,  and tear the letter into tiny pieces that fell like snow in a pile at his feet.

 

* * *

 

_Dear Mr. and Mrs. Bodt, Ana, Clara, Therese, Vincent, and Francesco,_

_Please accept my deepest sympathies for your loss. I served alongside your son, Marco as a stretcher bearer in the 104 th division. We have both promised to write each other’s families in case the worst should happen. Marco’s bravery was matched only by his kindness, but I’m sure you already knew that. In fact, you are surely aware of everything I want to say about him. How he was cheerful, gentle and full of life. That his enthusiasm and smile were infectious, even in our darkest days. I feel the need to stress my admiration of your son. We leave for the front tomorrow and as scared as he must be, he still somehow manages to give me strength. He loved you immensely, but I’m sure he made that obvious as well. Again, my heartfelt condolences to you all. _

_Sincerely,_

_Jean Kirschtein_

He stared out the window of the train as it snailed its way back to England. He’d memorized the letter long ago, but now he couldn’t stop thinking of everything he wanted to add to it. How much had changed in those few months on the front lines that were somehow the longest of his life.

_Your son saved my life in more ways than one._

_He had a way with wounded, frightened men, which could calm even the most hysterical in a matter of minutes. People trusted him instinctively._

_I didn’t think I’d survive the war without him._

He pressed his forehead against the smudgy glass and took a deep breath in against the pain, imagining himself falling into his mother’s arms when so many men were coming home in body bags.  

_I don’t think I want to._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may or may not have cried during the writing (and subsequent editing) of this chapter.


	9. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~allusions to suicide in this chapter~

Jean stood baffled amidst a sea of wheat; the dirt roads and lopsided farmhouses so different from the cramped flat he’d left behind in London.

_I can’t believe I’m doing this._

The piece of paper still burned in his back pocket, the return address just barely visible under the wrinkles and smears. He found himself in front of a house with a few chickens pecking around in the dirt. The door was opened by a dour girl with a red scarf wrapped around her neck despite the warmth of the day. She fixed Jean with a wary gaze.

“What do you want?”

He was taken aback by her blunt unfriendliness.

“My name’s uhh, Jean. Does Eren Jaeger still live here by any chance?”

“He’s my brother,” She replied, as if that should be obvious. She didn’t budge from the doorway.

“We were in the army together,” He added.

The girl made a noncommittal noise in the back of her throat and her eyes slid to the top of his head. Jean mentally kicked himself as he realized that he was wearing his uniform cap.

“Could I come in, Ms…?”

“Call me Mikasa.” She gave him a final once-over, decided he wasn’t a threat, and jerked her thumb over her shoulder. “He’s in the back bedroom. He gets tired pretty easily though, so you can’t stay long. The doctors say it might be a while yet before he’s fully recovered.”

_What an odd name,_ Jean thought as he stepped over the threshold, cautiously, as if the girl could attack at any minute. _Hell if she wasn’t so prickly, she might’ve been beautiful._

The interior of the house was sparse, but clean. Mikasa ushered him past a table set for two and down a short hallway. She knocked, waited about half a second, then threw open the door.

“Someone’s here to see you,” She announced unceremoniously, before abruptly taking her leave.

Eren was sitting in a rocking chair with his back to the door, hunched over in such a way that Jean could only see a tuft of hair poking up. He hadn’t moved in response to Mikasa’s voice.

Jean took off his hat, balling it in his suddenly sweaty fist. He moved to face Eren after a pointed cough didn’t get his attention, skirting a few empty bottles that lay scattered on the floor.

“What do you want?” His voice was deeper than Jean remembered, made rough by booze and cigarettes, the scent of which hung in the room like a stale shroud.

“I heard about Armin. In the papers. I’m sorry.” Jean kept his eyes fixed firmly on the rockers, away from the blunt stumps where Eren’s arm and leg should have been.

The silence was not so much deafening as it was charged. Jean could feel it grating across his skin like nails on a chalkboard.

“I didn’t even know he came back. Else I would’ve sought him out, ya know. The uhh the war messed him up pretty bad. More than most of us anyways. Shell shock got to him, but I always thought maybe he’d get better once he got a break, a little time away from the trenches…” He trailed off; aware he was starting to babble pointlessly.

“Do you feel better? Now that you’re back home?” Eren’s throat was full of broken glass, the question ripping out of him.

_Waking up in cold sweats every night, sheets turning into hands that grab my ankles and hold me down, that blackness seeping through the floorboards that I just can’t shake. Neighbors stare but sometimes I can still hear Marco whispering in my ear._

“Forget it. You can get a job or some shit. Be a productive member of society ‘stead of relying on other people for handouts.” He glared balefully at the door.

“Marco’s dead.” The words plopped from Jean’s lips unbidden, but he felt a huge weight lift from his chest, as if he’d been carrying around a terrible secret this whole time. “And I feel like I don’t deserve to be here because he saved my life. I walk around London all day, watching people going about their daily business and it’s like I’m not even part of the world anymore. Like part of me is still on the goddamn battlefield, even though the war is over now. His family sent me a letter _thanking_ me for telling them that their fucking son was dead. Jesus.” He mashed a hand against his temple, trembling from the sudden release of emotion.

When he looked up again, Eren’s expression had softened to something almost pensive. “M’sorry. I didn’t know. You guys were really close, huh?”

Jean nodded, unable to speak around the lump in his throat.

“It was like that with me and Armin, too. But when he came back he was…different. Skittish. Paranoid. He’d carry around his goddamn service revolver ‘just in case’. Almost shot Mikasa once cos she snuck up on him on accident. Woke up screaming gibberish, convinced I was dead, or that he was still in France. Even after all that I never thought he’d, y’know…” Eren made a defeated gesture towards his head with his thumb and forefinger, “with the revolver.”

“We tried to protect him, I swear.”

“Miracle he came back at all,” Eren sighed, massaging the spot on his thigh that should be connected to a knee. He tapped open a pack of cigarettes and proffered one to Jean. “Hell, it’s a miracle _I’m_ still here. I s’pose I have you to thank for that. And Marco.”

The smoked in silence for a while, watching their exhalations curl in upon themselves and drifting weightlessly for a few seconds before dissipating. Jean cleared his throat.

“So, you don’t blame me for what happened?”

Eren snorted bitterly. “I blame the damn war. And an idiot kid who dragged his best friend into it.”

“I think Armin would have gone with you whether you wanted him to or not. He was always trying to look out for other people.” Jean was struck by a vivid memory of the blond boy handing his rations to a man stumbling back wounded from the front. _He needs it more than I do._

“Hey remember that time Reiner made dinner for the whole regiment and gave everybody food poisoning?” Eren blurted out half an octave higher than usual.

Jean glanced at him sharply out of the corner of his eye in surprise, and noted that his cheeks were wet.

“That was _awful_ ,” he allowed himself a small chuckle. “Though you can speak for yourself. We bearers had already learned not to eat anything he cooked.”

They spent the rest of the evening reminiscing; interrupted only by Mikasa, who brought in a dinner tray for Eren. She paused in the doorway, an unreadable look on her face.

As they talked, Jean felt the ghosts of their fallen comrades softening around the edges of his mind, their faces no longer set in grim lines but in smiles. The horrors felt a little further away, the shadows pushed back by a warm glow, like leaching poison from a wound.  

He knew that they would be back, just like he knew that he would visit again as he clasped Eren’s hand warmly and departed, but for now the night sky was heavy with memories, speckled stars across the sable darkness. Jean breathed in Marco’s gentleness, Armin’s diplomacy, Reiner’s strength, the 104th battalion forming a cloak around him.

_Maybe I can track down the rest. Connie, Levi, whoever else made it out. We can sit and gab like a bunch of old ladies, even bring our own goddamn knitting to complete the picture._

Still, he smiled to himself.

_I think I’ll sleep better tonight._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I worked really hard on this fic, so I hope you enjoyed it :)
> 
> If you ever want to drop me a line, my tumblr is stopblowingholesinmeship.

**Author's Note:**

> I am a nursing student, not a historian so please point out any errors I can fix, and forgive the ones I can’t! Most of my research comes from the book Wounded: A New History of the Western Front in World War I by Emily Mayhew. This fic is for fun- the only “profit” I hope to receive is in the form of kudos and bookmarks :)


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